The Life of Sir Richard Burton Part 38

Some months after, when her mind had regained its equilibrium, she observed to Major St. George Burton. [637] "To a Protestant, d.i.c.k's reception into the Holy Church must seem meaningless and void. He was dead before extreme unction was administered; and my sole idea was to satisfy myself that he and I would be buried according to the Catholic rites and lie together above ground in the Catholic cemetery. He was not strictly received, for he was dead, and the formula Si es capax, &c., saved the priest's face and satisfied the church." When mortification began to set in, the body, which was found to be covered with scars, the witnesses of a hundred fights, was embalmed, laid out in uniform, and surrounded with candles and wreaths. "He looked so sweet," says Lady Burton, "such an adorable dignity, like a sleep." [638] Behind the bed still hung the great map of Africa. On his breast Lady Burton had placed a crucifix, and he still wore the steel chain and the "Blessed Virgin Medal," which she had given him just before the Tanganyika journey.

Priests, pious persons, and children from the orphanage of St. Joseph, in which Lady Burton had taken so much interest, watched and prayed, recited the office for the dead, and sang hymns.

There were three distinct funerals at Trieste, and there was to be another nine months onward in England. All that can be said is that Lady Burton seemed to draw comfort from pageantry and ceremonial that to most mourners would have been only a long-drawn agony.

The procession was a royal one. The coffin was covered with the Union Jack, and behind it were borne on a cushion Burton's order and medals.

Then followed a carriage with a pyramid of wreaths, and lastly, the children of St. Joseph's orphanage, a regiment of infantry and the governor and officials of Trieste.

Every flag in the town was half-mast high, mult.i.tudes thronged the streets, and every window and balcony was crowded. Every head was uncovered. The procession wound its way from the Palazzo Gosleth down the declivity into the city under a bright sun pouring down its full beams, and so onward through the serried ma.s.ses of spectators to the cemetery. Writing to Lady Stisted, [639] Lady Burton says, "I did not have him buried, but had a private room in the cemetery [a "chapelle ardente"] consecrated (with windows and doors on the ground floor) above ground where I can go and sit with him every day. He had three church services performed over him, and 1,100 ma.s.ses said for the repose of his soul." "For the man," commented the profane, "who, in his own words, 'protested against the whole business,' perhaps 1,100 ma.s.ses would not have been enough." In an oration delivered in the Diet of Trieste, Dr.

Cambon called him an intrepid explorer, a gallant soldier, an honour to the town of Trieste." The whole press of the world rang with his praises. The n.o.ble tribute paid to his memory by Algernon C. Swinburne has often been quoted:

"While England sees not her old praise dim, While still her stars through the world's night swim, A fame outshining her Raleigh's fame, A light that lightens her loud sea's rim: Shall shine and sound as her sons proclaim The pride that kindles at Burton's name, And joy shall exalt their pride to be The same in birth if in soul the same." [640]

"Our affairs," Lady Burton tells Lady Stisted, in a heartrending letter, [641] "are so numerous and we belonged to so many things that I have not strength enough to get them carried out before eight weeks, and I could not bear to arrive in Xmas holidays, but immediately after they are over, early January, I shall arrive, if I live, and pa.s.s through Folkestone on my way to Mortlake with the dear remains to make a tomb there for us two; and you must let me know whether you wish to see me or not.

"I wish to go into a convent for a spiritual retreat for fifteen days, and after that I should like to live very quietly in a retired way in London till G.o.d show me what I am to do or, as I hope, will take me also; and this my belief that I shall go in a few months is my only consolation. As to me, I do not know how anyone can suffer so much and live. While all around me had to go to bed ill, I have had a supernatural strength of soul and body, and have never lost my head for one moment, but I cannot cry a tear. My throat is closed, and I sometime cannot swallow. My heart swelled to bursting. It must go snap soon, I think. I have not forgotten you, and what it means to you who loved each other so much. I shall save many little treasures for you. His and your father's watch, &c. There are hundreds of telegrams and letters and cards by every post from all parts of the world, and the newspapers are full. The whole civilized world ringing with his praise, and appreciative of his merits--every one deeming it an honour to have known him. Now it will be felt what we have lost. I shall pa.s.s the remainder of my short time in writing his life and you must help me. Best love to dearest Georgy. I will write to her. Your affectionate and desolate Isabel."

To Mr. Arbuthnot, Lady Burton also wrote a very long and pitiful letter.

[642] As it records in other words much that has already been mentioned we will quote only a few sentences.

"Dear Mr. Arbuthnot, "Your sympathy and that of Mrs. Arbuthnot is very precious to me and I answer you both in one. I cannot answer general letters, but you were his best friend. I should like to tell you all if I saw you but I have no heart to write it.... I am arranging all his affairs and when finished I bring him to England.... I shall be a little slow coming because I have so much to do with his books and MSS., and secondly because the rent is paid to the 24th February and I am too poor to pay two places. Here I cannot separate from his body, and there it will be in the earth. I am so thoroughly stunned that I feel nothing outside, but my heart is crucified. I have lost all in him. You will want to know my plans. When my work is done, say 1st of March, I will go into a long retreat in a convent and will offer myself to a Sister of Charity. I do not think I shall be accepted for my age and infirmities, but will try.... The world is for me a dead letter, and can no more touch me. No more joy--no further sorrow can affect me. Dr. Baker is so good to me, and is undertaking my affairs himself as I really cannot care about them now. Love to both. G.o.d bless you both for unvarying friendship and kindness. Your affectionate and desolate friend, Isabel Burton.

"I have saved his gold watch-chain as a memorial for you."

So pa.s.sed from human ken the great, n.o.ble and learned Richard Francis Burton, "wader of the seas of knowledge," "cistern of learning of our globe," "exalted above his age," "opener by his books of night and day,"

"traveller by ship and foot and horse." [643] No man could have had a fuller life. Of all travellers he was surely the most enthusiastic.

What had he not seen? The plains of the Indus, the slopes of the Blue Mountains, the cla.s.sic cities of Italy, the mephitic swamps of Eastern Africa, the Nilotic cataracts, Brazil, Abeokuta, Iceland, El Dorado--all knew well--him, his star-sapphire, and his congested church service: lands fertile, barren, savage, civilized, utilitarian, dithyrambic. He had worshipped at Mecca and at Salt Lake City. He had looked into the face of Memnon, and upon the rocks of Midian, 'graven with an iron pen,'

upon the head waters of the Congo, and the foliate columns of Palmyra; he had traversed the whole length of the Sao Francisco, crossed the Mississippi and the Ganges. Then, too, had not the Power of the Hills been upon him! With what eminence indeed was he not familiar, whether Alp, Cameroon or Himalaya! Nor did he despise the features of his native land. If he had climbed the easy Andes, he had also conquered, and looked down from the giddy heights of Hampstead. Because he had grubbed in the Italian Pompeii he did not, on that account, despise the British Uriconium. [644] He ranks with the world's most intrepid explorers--with Columbus, Cabot, Marco Polo, Da Gama and Stanley. Like another famous traveller, he had been "in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in weariness and painfullness." In the words of his beloved Camoens, he had done

"Deeds that deserve, like G.o.ds, a deathless name." [645]

He had lived almost his three score and ten, but, says one of his friends, "in the vigour, the vehemence indeed with which he vented his indignation over any meanness or wrong, or littleness, he was to the last as youthful as when he visited Mecca and Harar. If, however, the work he did, the hardships he endured, and the amazing amount of learning which he acquired and gave forth to the world are to be taken as any measure of his life, he lived double the term of most ordinary men." Like Ovid, for the parallelism preserved itself to the end, he died in the land of his exile.

"It has been said of him that he was the greatest Oriental scholar England ever had and neglected." He was a mighty writer of books--some fifty works, to say nothing of mult.i.tudinous articles in the journals of the learned societies, having proceeded from his pen. If it be conceded that he was wanting in the literary faculty and that no one of his books is entirely satisfactory, it should be borne in mind that he added enormously to the sum of human knowledge. We go to him, not for style, but for facts. Again, if his books are not works of art, they contain, nevertheless, many pa.s.sages that cling to the memory. Take him as linguist, traveller and anthropologist, he was certainly one of the greatest men that modern England has produced.

Chapter x.x.xVIII. 20th October 1890-December 1890, The Fate of "The Scented Garden"

173. The Fate of The Scented Garden.

Burton wad dead. All that was mortal of him lay cold and motionless in the chapelle ardente. But his spirit? The spirits of the departed, can they revive us? The Roman poet Propertius answers:

"Yes; there are ghosts: death ends not all, I ween."

and Lady Burton was just as thoroughly imbued with that belief. Hereby hangs a curious story, now to be told as regards its essentials for the first time; and we may add that Lady Burton particularly wished these essentials to be made public after her decease. [646]

For sixteen days after her husband's death Lady Burton shut herself up in the house in order to examine and cla.s.sify his ma.n.u.scripts, pack up books, &c., ready for the journey to England, and "carry out his instructions." To the goodness--the sweetness--of her character we have several times paid tributes. We have spoken of the devotion to her husband which surrounds her with a lambent glory; but we have also shown that she was indiscreet, illiterate, [647] superst.i.tious and impulsive; and that she was possessed of a self-a.s.surance that can only be described as colossal. We have also shown that her mind was unhinged by her sad trouble. Such, then, was the woman and such the condition of the woman upon whom devolved the duty of considering the ma.n.u.scripts of one of the most original men of the 19th century. Which of them were valuable and which mere lumber she was quite incapable of judging. Her right course would have been to call in some competent person; but she thought she was competent.

At Lady Burton's request, Mr. Albert Letchford and Miss Letchford had come to stay with her "for the remembrance of the love her husband bore them." It fell to Miss Letchford to sort Sir Richard's clothes and to remove the various trifles from his pockets. She found, among other things, the little canvas bags containing horse-chestnuts, which, as we have already noticed, he used "to carry about with him against the Evil Eye--as a charm to keep him from sickness."

Lady Burton now commenced with the ma.n.u.scripts--and let it be conceded, with the very best intentions. She would have n.o.body in the room but Miss Letchford. "I helped Lady Burton to sort his books, papers, and ma.n.u.scripts," says Miss Letchford. "She thought me too young and innocent to understand anything. She did not suspect that often when she was not near I looked through and read many of those MSS. which I bitterly repent not having taken, for in that case the world would not have been deprived of many beautiful and valuable writings. I remember a poem of his written in the style of 'The House that Jack built,' the biting sarcasm of which, the ironical finesse--is beyond anything I have ever read. Many great people still living found their way into these verses. I begged Lady Burton to keep it, but her peasant confessor said 'Destroy it,' so it was burnt along with a hundred other beautiful things." She destroyed valuable papers, [648] she carefully preserved and docketed as priceless treasures mere waste paper. [649]

There now remained only the ma.n.u.script of The Scented Garden and a few other papers. By this time Lady Burton had discovered that Miss Letchford was "not so ignorant as she thought," and when the latter begged her not to destroy The Scented Garden she promised that it should be saved; and no doubt, she really intended to save it. Miss Letchford having gone out for the evening, Lady Burton returned again to her task.

Her mind was still uneasy about The Scented Garden, and she took out the ma.n.u.script to examine it. Of the character of the work she had some idea, though her husband had not allowed her to read it. Fifteen hundred persons had promised subscriptions; and she had also received an offer of six thousand guineas for it from a publisher. [650] She took out the ma.n.u.script and laid it on the floor, "two large volumes worth." [651]

When she opened it she was perfectly bewildered and horrified. The text alone would have staggered her, but, as we have seen, Burton had trebled the size of the book with notes of a certain character. Calming herself, she reflected that the book was written only for scholars and mainly for Oriental students, and that her husband "never wrote a thing from the impure point of view. He dissected a pa.s.sion from every point of view, as a doctor may dissect a body, showing its source, its origin, its evil, and its good." [652]

Then she looked up, and there, before her, stood her husband just as he had stood in the flesh. He pointed to the ma.n.u.script and said "Burn it!"

Then he disappeared.

As she had for years been a believer in spirits, the apparition did not surprise her, and yet she was tremendously excited. "Burn it!" she echoed, "the valuable ma.n.u.script? At which he laboured for so many weary hours? Yet, doubtless, it would be wrong to preserve it. Sin is the only rolling stone that gathers moss; what a gentleman, a scholar, a man of the world may write, when living, he would see very differently as a poor soul standing naked before its G.o.d, with its good or evil deeds alone to answer for, and their consequences visible to it from the first moment, rolling on to the end of time. Oh, he would cry, for a friend on earth to stop and check them! What would he care for the applause of fifteen hundred men now--for the whole world's praise, and G.o.d offended?

And yet the book is for students only. Six thousand guineas, too, is a large sum, and I have great need of it."

At this moment the apparition again stood before her, and in a sterner and more authoritative voice said: "Burn it!" and then again disappeared. In her excitement she scarcely knew where she was or what she did. Still she hesitated. Then she soliloquised: "It is his will, and what he wishes shall be done. He loved me and worked for me. How am I going to reward him? In order that my wretched body may be fed and warmed for a few miserable years, shall I let his soul be left out in cold and darkness till the end of time--till all the sins which may be committed on reading those writings have been expiated, or pa.s.sed away, perhaps, for ever? Nafzawi, who was a pagan, begged pardon of G.o.d and prayed not to be cast into h.e.l.l fire for having written it, and implored his readers to pray for him to Allah that he would have mercy on him."

[653]

Still she hesitated. "It was his magnum opus," she went on, "his last work that he was so proud of, that was to have been finished [654] on the awful morrow that never came. If I burn it the recollection will haunt me to my dying day," and again she turned over the leaves.

Then for the third time Sir Richard stood before her. Again he sternly bade her burn the ma.n.u.script, and, having added threatenings to his command, he again disappeared.

By this time her excitement had pa.s.sed away, and a holy joy irradiated her soul. She took up the ma.n.u.script, and then sorrowfully, reverently, and in fear and trembling, she burnt it sheet after sheet, until the whole was consumed. As each leaf was licked up by the fire, it seemed to her that "a fresh ray of light and peace" transfused the soul of her beloved husband.

That such were the facts and that the appearance of her husband was not mere hallucination, Lady Burton stiffly maintained until her dying day.

She told Mr. T. Douglas Murray [655] that she dared not mention the appearances of her husband in her letter to The Morning Post [656] or to her relatives for fear of ridicule. Yet in the Life of her husband--almost the closing words--she does give a hint to those who could understand. She says: "Do not be so hard and prosaic as to suppose that our dead cannot, in rare instances, come back and tell us how it is with them." [657]

That evening, when Miss Letchford, after her return, entered Sir Richard's room, she saw some papers still smouldering in the grate.

They were all that remained of The Scented Garden. On noticing Miss Letchford's reproachful look, Lady Burton said, "I wished his name to live for ever unsullied and without a stain."

174. Discrepancies in Lady Burton's Story.

Some have regarded this action of Lady Burton's--the destruction of The Scented Garden ma.n.u.script--as "one of rare self-sacrifice prompted by the highest religious motives and the tenderest love for one whom she looked to meet again in heaven, to which her burnt offering and fervent prayers might make his entrance sure." If the burning of the MS. of The Scented Garden had been an isolated action, we might have cheerfully endorsed the opinion just quoted, but it was only one holocaust of a series. That Lady Burton had the best of motives we have already admitted; but it is also very evident that she gave the matter inadequate consideration. The discrepancies in her account of the ma.n.u.script prove that at most she could have turned over only three or four pages--or half-a-dozen at the outside. [658]

Let us notice these discrepancies:

(1) In her letter to the Morning Post (19th June 1891) she says of The Scented Garden: "It was his magnum opus, his last work that he was so proud of." Yet in the Life (ii., 243) she calls it the only book he ever wrote that was not valuable to the world and in p. 445 of the same work she alludes to it "as a few chapters which were of no particular value to the world." So it was at once the most valuable book he ever wrote and also of no value whatever. (2) In Volume ii. of the Life (p. 441) she says the only value in the book at all consisted in his annotations, and there was no poetry. This remark proves more than anything else how very superficial must have been her examination of the ma.n.u.script, for even the garbled edition of 1886 contains nearly 400 lines of verse, while that of 1904 probably contains over a thousand. [659] For example, there are twenty-three lines of the poet Abu Nowas's. (3) On page 444 of the Life she says: "It was all translation except the annotations on the Arabic work"--which gives the impression that the translation was the great feature, and that the notes were of secondary importance; but on p. 441 she says, "The only value in the book at all consisted in the annotations." As a matter of fact, the annotations amounted to three-quarters of the whole. [See Chapter x.x.xiv.] (4) In the Life, page 410 (Vol. ii.), she says the work was finished all but one page; and on page 444 that only 20 chapters were done. Yet she much have known that the whole work consisted of 21 chapters, and that the 21st chapter was as large as the other twenty put together, for her husband was always talking about and trying to obtain an Arabic ma.n.u.script of this chapter (See chapter 35).

All this, of course, proved indubitably that Lady Burton actually knew next to nothing about the whole matter. Perhaps it will be asked, What has been lost by this action of Lady Burton's? After carefully weighing the pros and cons we have come to the conclusion that the loss could not possibly have been a serious one. That Burton placed a very high value on his work, that he considered it his masterpiece, is incontrovertible, but he had formed in earlier days just as high an opinion of his Camoens and his Kasidah; therefore what he himself said about it has not necessarily any great weight. We do not think the loss serious for four reasons: First, because the original work, whatever its claims on the anthropologist, has little, if any, literary merit; [660] secondly, because Sir Richard Burton's "old version" [661] of The Scented Garden is public property, and has been reprinted at least three times; thirdly, because only half was done; and fourthly, because the whole of the work has since been translated by a writer who, whatever his qualifications or disqualifications, has had access to ma.n.u.scripts that were inaccessible to Sir Richard Burton. Practically then, for, as we have already shown, Sir Richard did not particularly shine as a translator, nothing has been lost except his notes. These notes seem to have been equivalent to about 600 pages of an ordinary crown octavo book printed in long primer. Two-thirds of this matter was probably of such a character that its loss cannot be deplored. The remainder seems to have been really valuable and to have thrown light on Arab life and manners.

Although the translation was destroyed in October 1890, the public were not informed of the occurrence until June 1891--nine months after.